Crossing his arms, Darius leaned against the island counter and stared at her. “Normal? In whose world? Everyone’s definition of normal is different.”
She swirled her spoon in the ice cream container. “Normal like the wives and girlfriends of your Trident men. Please do not get me wrong—I love my country, its people, our history, and our culture. But being a princess is not what most little girls fantasize about. My every move is watched by the guards and reported on by the news and tabloids. And forget social media—most of the things posted about me on there never happened. While I use certain sites to promote my charity work, I learned long ago not to read anything I am tagged in. People can be so cruel and easily believe the lies that are told on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. They have no problem viciously attacking people they have never met.
“My life can be very lonely, even though I am constantly surrounded by people. I must always be smiling in public and never raise my voice or do anything to dishonor my crown or family. I must confess that is why I have enjoyed flirting with some of my American bodyguards. Ian Sawyer . . . I mean, Ian is a man my father and Amar trust implicitly.” She smiled. “I also have a sixth sense, if you will, about whom I can trust. It is only those men who I will flirt with, if they do not have a wife or fiancée, because I know they will not try to take advantage of me. They will not dishonor the man they respect. Ian is a good employer, but he is also a good friend to all of you. You would never do anything to betray his trust.”
“Wow.” Darius was a little stunned. He’d always thought she was a spoiled brat, but now he knew his assessment had been completely off its mark. “Forgive me for making false assumptions, Your Highness.”
“You are forgiven, Darius, on one condition. When we are alone like this, out of the public eye, please call me Tahira. I do not hear my name often, without my title, unless I am with family. I have asked Ian and several of his family members to call me by my given name only, and, now, I am asking you as well.”
He dipped his head once. “If you insist, Tahira, it would be my honor.”
Standing, she returned the half-empty container to the freezer and placed her spoon in the sink. “Thank you, Darius. Now, I am going to return to my room and try to fall asleep. I hope you have a pleasant and quiet night.”
Watching in silence as she left the room, Darius tried to wrap his head around this new side of her he’d never seen before. She was a completely different woman than she’d been during his past bodyguard details and had definitely matured over the past two years. After a few moments, he grinned. He liked this new version of her—a lot.
9
Present . . .
As he drove Torres and the others, who were drunk off their asses, back to the Diaz compound, Darius ran the minutes of the meeting with the teams through his head again. They’d tried to cover every detail and alternate ending to the planned raid, but with their experience, they knew shit could go sideways in the blink of an eye. As much as they wanted Diaz and his sleazy connections, the women came first. There would be no innocent casualties on Darius’s watch—not if he could prevent it.
He’d given Ian the names of some of the women being held hostage. He’d gotten them while hanging out in the compound security office, shooting the bull with the guards on occasion. The cell area had been wired for sound, and the women talked. He had first names on more than half of them, but only a few last names from when they’d introduced themselves to the newer captives. Darius had been surprised when Ian had recognized the name Melinda. Apparently, an acquaintance named “Lady Cara” believed a teenaged woman she knew had been kidnapped from St. Lucia by the human-trafficking ring. When his boss had shown him a photo on his phone of the missing woman, Darius had been able to confirm Melinda was one of the hostages being held at Diaz’s estate. She’d been in the makeshift prison for longer than Darius had been undercover as Glenn Hamilton.
After driving past the security shack at the gate, Darius parked the vehicle next to the bunkhouse the guards lived in. He helped the drunken idiots inside, then turned and headed for the main house under the guise of wanting something to eat from the kitchen. When he entered the large room, with its state-of-the-art appliances that any chef would be jealous of, he found it occupied. Two of Diaz’s flunkies were sitting there, stuffing their faces with food left over from dinner.
They both nodded in his direction, and the one named Carlos gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Hola, amigo. Beer’s in the fridge. Pull up a seat.”
When Darius had first arrived at the compound, he’d intentionally mangled the Spanish language to the point most of Diaz’s men spoke to him in English. They’d switch to Spanish when they thought he couldn’t understand their rapid speech. Little did they know he understood every word.
“Hey, guys, gracias.” Despite the warmth of the room, he left his bulky winter coat on. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he popped the top and took a swig. “How’s your shift going? Quiet?”
“Pretty much,” Carlos responded before smirking. “Although it wasn’t as good as Secada’s night.”
Darius leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“While we were walking around the compound in the fucking cold, he was getting some tail.”
Something in the other man’s tone set Darius’s bat senses tingling. “He hooked up with one of the women on staff? Or did he bring someone to the compound?” The latter was against the rules Diaz had laid out for his men.
The other man, Javier, snorted. “Didn’t need to. He helped himself to one of the putas downstairs.”
Oh, fuck. He tried to not let his anger or revulsion show. “Yeah, which one? They’re all hot.”
“Oh, yeah. I’d fuck any one of them in a heartbeat. Especially that princess.”
Carlos laughed. “Right, amigo, like she’d ever give you the time of day.”
“Don’t need her to. I’d just do what Secada did—drug her up and tie her down.”
Darius’s gut sank, and he fought the urge to shoot both Carlos and Javier, then go find Secada and tear him limb from limb. He paused a few moments, making sure he had himself under control. The last thing he needed to do was raise any red flags. “Are you saying Secada did the princess? I thought Diaz was going to ask double the money for her because she was a virgin.”
“Nah, he didn’t do her. It was one of the other two with her—the taller one. From the looks of her when he brought her back downstairs, he had a good time. Beat her up good—she must have fought him like a wildcat. Secada’s fucked a few of them, but Señor Diaz doesn’t know that.” He lowered his voice as if afraid he’d be overheard. “The cabrón won’t let anyone else have a taste either.”
His jaw clenching, Darius poured the rest of his beer down the sink. While it killed him that Lahana or any of the other women being held had been raped by that asshole, he couldn’t help but be relieved it hadn’t been Tahira. Maybe it was because he’d never met the other women or spoken to them before. But it really didn’t matter because when the raid went down, Darius was going to make sure Secada suffered before being arrested or, better yet, killed.
Pushing his chair back so it made a scraping noise as he stood, Carlos frowned. “Mierda—I gotta do my rounds.”
It was obvious the man would prefer to finish eating the enchiladas and beans on his plate, so Darius took advantage of that. He thought he would’ve had to wait until his morning shift to hide the little surprises Ian had provided him with, but with everyone in the forty-room main house sleeping at this time of night, it was the perfect opportunity for him to do what he needed to do. “I’ll do it.” He shrugged. “Got nothing better to do—stay and eat.”
“You sure? Gracias, amigo.”
“No problemo. Won’t take long.”
Striding out into the hallway, Darius began to make his way around the first floor, under the guise of making certain the windows and doors were secure. He pressed a button on his
watch and waited a few seconds before entering the formal living room. The black timepiece was something out of a James Bond movie and Darius freaking loved the thing. It looked like a common multifunction smart watch, but there was nothing like it available to the public. The tech gurus at Deimos had made some changes to a $60 version you could buy anywhere. The button Darius had hit was for a jammer that would interfere with the compound’s surveillance cameras. Some of the camera feeds would blink in and out, but the ones Darius was closest to would show nothing but static back in the security office. He’d been randomly fucking with the system for about three weeks now. At first everyone had freaked, but after finding no breaches, they’d finally written it off as a glitch in the system. In fact, the guards no longer alerted Diaz and Secada when it happened. They’d gotten complacent and that’s exactly what Darius had hoped would happen.
Entering the living room, he made sure he was alone, then unzipped the lining of his jacket. He pulled out a small block of C-4 and a detonator. The great thing about the putty-like explosive was that it was easy to carry without worrying about blowing yourself up. Only the shock wave from a detonator or blasting cap would set it off.
After inserting the wires of the detonator into the two-inch-square block, Darius lifted the top of a bench next to a baby grand piano, and gently set the explosive on a pile of sheet music. Ian had the device that would transmit the signal for it to blow when the time was right. They didn’t have to worry about Diaz’s wife or kids playing the piano before the raid. Last week, the man had shipped his family out to one of his other homes in South America. He hadn’t wanted them around for the auction, although Darius got the impression Diaz’s wife knew all about her husband’s illegal businesses but was too afraid to go against him and turn him in to the authorities. If she ever tried, she probably would’ve been dead within hours.
From what Darius had been told by the others, most of Diaz’s house staff would not be at the compound during the auction either. For that he was grateful, knowing that many of the women and a few of the men were innocent—unlike the guards. The only reason most of the house staff worked there was because they either really needed the money to support their poor families or they owed Diaz some sort of debt.
Once he’d strategically placed explosives in all the downstairs rooms he had access to, Darius climbed the elaborate, grand staircase in the foyer to the second floor. Diaz’s room was down the hallway to Darius’s left, with Secada’s and two cartel lieutenants’ rooms in the opposite direction. Diaz’s kids’ rooms and several guest rooms were all empty.
There was a seating area at the top of the staircase, with glass doors that led out to a balcony. All the windows in the mansion had been replaced with reinforced, bulletproof glass, while the wooden doors had steel inserts, which made it difficult for anyone to blast their way in. Difficult, but not impossible.
Avoiding the occupied rooms, Darius slipped into the other ones and hid the last of the C-4 under beds or behind dressers—anywhere they, hopefully, wouldn’t be found before it was showtime. The main objective of the explosions was to create enough confusion for the special-ops teams to attack. If anyone there for the auction was injured or killed in the blasts, Darius saw that as a bonus. The sick bastards deserved everything that was coming to them.
A little less than forty-eight hours from now, Darius and the hostages in the basement prison would be on their way to the United States. The women would receive treatment at a secure facility and then returned to their families and homes. Darius prayed they’d be able to put this horror behind them at some point, but he knew it would be difficult for Lahana and any others that Secada had raped. Forty-eight more hours and that bastard would be dead, and Darius vowed he would be the one to slaughter him.
Sixteen hours later . . .
Tahira shivered and wrapped her blanket tighter around her body as she sat on a threadbare mattress on the floor. As dirty as the thing was, she’d been grateful when one of the guards had tossed three of them into the cell. Although heat came through the ceiling vents, she still wasn't appropriately dressed for the cold, damp dungeon. What she wouldn't give for an electric blanket right now—actually, she'd give up her crown for a one-star hotel in the United States or anywhere else than this prison right now.
Based on the meal deliveries, she and her cousins had been there for almost three days. How long would they and the other women be held until they were sold?
Sold.
That word conjured up all sorts of horrors. She may be a virgin, but she was fully aware of the human trafficking that took place around the world. A charity to help fight it was one of the many Tahira supported. She’d heard all about the vile atrocities abducted women had been subjected to, with some of the stories coming directly from those who’d lived through it before being rescued. Unfortunately, the number of those rescued was a stark contrast to the ones who’d been killed or were still being held captive in some unknown part of the world.
She glanced over at Lahana lying in a fetal position on her own mattress. Her cousin had been sleeping on and off and had refused to talk about what had happened to her aside from the fact the bastard had hurt her. Tahira’s cheek still hurt from when he’d struck her, so she couldn’t image the pain her cousin was in—her body was covered in bruises. Even though she hadn’t been assaulted, Nala had also been very quiet since Lahana had been returned to the cell. She was sitting against the stone wall with her arms holding her knees to her chest as she stared at the floor in front of her and rocked back and forth. She’d been traumatized, yet in a different way. The nineteen-year-old was terrified about what was going to happen to them and was emotionally and mentally shutting down. While Tahira had never seen that happen to anyone before, she recalled talking to victims of human trafficking who mentioned they’d done the same thing as a coping mechanism. In a way, Tahira envied Nala, but she knew that if they were rescued, Nala would need professional help to recover from their abduction just as much as Lahana would.
In the near silence of the cell area, footsteps echoed, announcing someone was coming down the stairs. Tahira wasn’t the only one who’d heard them; the other women shifted around in their cells, probably trying to make themselves invisible, yet failing to do so. They’d already gotten their dinner a little while ago, as meager as it had been, so the only reason someone would be coming down there at that hour couldn’t be good.
Tahira looked around. From what Melinda in the next cell had told her, none of those assaulted had been taken a second time. Secada took a new woman each time. But maybe that wasn’t who was coming. Melinda had said after Lahana had returned that they were safe for a few nights. The perverted bastard only chose one of them once or twice a week.
All thoughts about safety fled her mind when Secada strolled through the door with two armed men on his heels. Out of the corner of her eye, Tahira saw Nala tuck her head under her arms as she shivered uncontrollably. She couldn’t let the younger woman be taken by the bastard. Pushing her terror down, Tahira stood and moved so she was between the cell door and Nala, blocking her from Secada’s view as the man stopped in front of her.
His leering gaze trailed from her face to her feet and back again. A swirling black aura surrounded the man—pure evil. She shook under his scrutiny but wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t let his attention turn to Nala.
“Defiant, aren’t you? I love to break the defiant ones. To show them I hold all the power. And now that Diaz is out of the way, it’s my decision on whether or not I should sell your royal virginity or take it for myself.”
Oh, no. She had no idea what he meant about Diaz being out of the way, but right now, it didn’t matter. Without conscious thought, she took a step back and to the side, and the man’s feral eyes flitted to Nala. Tahira quickly blocked his view of the younger woman again, drawing his attention once again.
“Maybe I should let you wait for your fate and take her instead.”
Tahira’s eyes flared
as her hands clenched. “Over my dead body.”
The man snorted. “Oh, princess, you wouldn’t be dead, but you’d wish you were. I can guarantee it.”
As he put the key into the lock of the cell door, Tahira took another step back before remembering Nala, then stood her ground. She would not let her cousin, who was in no condition to fight, take her place, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t put up a fight.
She waited until the man entered the cell before lunging at him. Her fingernails tried to claw his face, but he knocked them away before Tahira could do any damage. Secada grabbed her upper arm in an agonizing grip and yanked her off balance. She stumbled forward and stubbed her toes against the open cell door, but the pain didn’t register in her brain—only fear and rebellion. “Let me go!”
Tahira twisted and pulled her arm, trying to get free, but she was no match for the man’s strength. Oh, why had she refused Amar’s numerous offers to teach her self-defense while in her teens? With her ever-present bodyguards, she never thought she’d need to fight for her life. But that’s what she was doing now. Maybe not her life, but her virginity, her mind, and her soul.
As Secada dragged her like a rag doll toward the door to the stairs, she heard one of the other men close the cell with a loud clang. Several of the women sobbed, but no one made an attempt to come to her aid. Not that there was anything they could do; just like she’d watched helplessly when Lahana had been taken. But Tahira wasn’t going to go quietly. She’d raise hell every step of the way . . . and pray.
10
Kicking, thrashing, screaming, and panting, Tahira was roughly led up to the second floor of what she now realized was a mansion. Judging by the decor, and the fact most of the people she’d encountered had heavy Spanish accents, it was most likely a hacienda. And since no one came running at the sound of her cries for help, it must be an empty hacienda—or one filled with people who didn’t care. Probably the latter, because she knew there were other men around. The ones who had followed her and Secada up from the cell area had veered off in another direction on the first floor.
Forty Days & One Knight: Trident Security Omega Team Book 2 Page 6